


paint with all the colors

by moonlitserenades



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of soulmate au drabbles.</p><p>Currently:<br/>If anyone could court life, it would be Jehan Prouvaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marius & Cosette

"Marius, you’re late—" Enjolras begins, with the flat impatience of a person who says so at least once a week. Marius trips over his own feet as he practically skips into the café, seizing the nearest person (Courfeyrac) by the hands. 

"I can see in color," he blurts out. "God. God, I can finally see colors.”  
"No shit," Courfeyrac exclaims. His chair nearly falls as he shoves it back, in his haste to hug Marius. He clutches at Courfeyrac, laughing a little hysterically, and when he is released from the hug, he falls into his chair a little shakily. "Congratulations!"

"So tell us about this mystery person, then," says Jehan keenly, tugging his chair closer and balancing his chin in his hands. "What are they like? How did you meet them?"

"Well," Marius begins, speaking through an enormous grin, "I was walking—well, sort of running actually, I was already running behind—and I bumped into someone, and we both sort of just. Fell. So I was…you know, picking up books and papers and things and trying to apologize, and then I looked up and just." He laughs, shaking his head. He’s gesturing, wildly, like he’s trying and failing to come up with the right words to explain the sudden explosion, the way everything had sort of rippled and come to life before his eyes. The way the entire world seems, suddenly, to have become impossibly vibrant and impossibly beautiful. 

"And she—her eyes got all wide and she stopped everything she was doing and just stared at me, and I was staring back obviously because she is actually the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen and she just said, 'did that really just happen,’ and I—I couldn’t…I didn’t know what to do, it was the craziest thing, so I just kind of…nodded. And the way she smiled when she knew it had happened to me, too…” He exhales shakily and rubs his hands hard over his face. “I can’t believe I found her.”

"What’s her name?" Combeferre now, reasonably.

Marius starts. “Oh, God, I don’t know.”

"The fuck do you mean you don’t know?” It’s the first Grantaire has spoken all meeting; his feet are kicked up on the table, and there’s a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingertips. His other arm is wrapped lightly around Éponine’s shoulders. (She is leaning against him and staring off into space as though she isn’t listening to any of this. He can tell from the tension radiating from her that the opposite is true. His thumb traces soothing shapes on the side of her shoulder, and they both know they’re not going to talk about it.)

"I didn’t think to ask," he admits, flushing bright red. "I just…I wasn’t thinking, I was so surprised, and then she told me she was late to class and that she’d see me around, and she…she kissed me on the cheek and ran off." He goes pale. "Oh, God, what if I don’t see her again?"

"In fairness, you go to the same university," Bossuet pipes up. "It can’t be that difficult to find her again, now that you know what she looks like.”

"What does she look like?" Joly adds, eager.

Marius bites his lip, thinking. “She has hair like the sun, and eyes like the sky. And her smile. God, her smile is incredible.”

"The words you’ll want," Grantaire says, dryly, "just for future reference, are yellow and blue." 

Marius starts. It’s easy to forget that Grantaire sees in color, somehow. He never talks about it. Doesn’t seem happy about it, at all. “Thank you.”

Grantaire shrugs, and finishes what remains in his bottle. 

"Well, don’t worry," Joly continues, looking like he’s not quite sure what to do. "We’ll find her, I’m sure. Or she’ll find you. She knows you’re both on the same page…that’s important."

"Right. Right, okay."

Enjolras (who has, to his credit, been extremely patient through all of this) clears his throat. “Marius,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Really. But we need to get back to business, we don’t have much time left before our next event.”

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, sorry."

Enjolras half smiles. “Don’t worry. Congratulations.”

(Later, when they’re all hanging out after the meeting is over, Marius will ask if Enjolras sees in color. He will not notice the way Grantaire stiffens, the way he nearly drops everything he’s holding, the way he makes a concerted effort not to look up from what he is doing. Enjolras will say, uncharacteristically quiet, “Yes. Yeah, I do.” He will pretend that he doesn’t know who it was that made him see color for the first time, but his eyes will follow Grantaire as he plods, slowly, out of the café.)


	2. In which the history of Enjolras and Grantaire is explored.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...sort of. 
> 
> And then there had been a blast of static and someone had begun to talk—someone with a deep, authoritative, and frankly, sexy voice. (To this day, Grantaire is still not proud that that was his first reaction.)
> 
> He looked up, vaguely intrigued, and.
> 
> and.
> 
> everything changed.

_Grantaire ___

__He remembers it in near-perfect detail. Remembers Éponine convincing him to come to some protest (he, admittedly, didn’t know what it would be about at the time), and giving in because this was the first time she’d been properly excited about something in ages. So he’d gone, and there’d been yelling and people with signs and he had not expected it to be this crowded or this…enthusiastic._ _

__It had been easy to lose himself in all of the chaos, to let the noise and the press of the crowd carry him away. And then there had been a blast of static and someone had begun to talk—someone with a deep, authoritative, and frankly, sexy voice. (To this day, Grantaire is still not proud that that was his first reaction.)_ _

__He looked up, vaguely intrigued, and._ _

__and.  
everything changed._ _

__

__It hit him like a bullet. One minute, everything was shades of gray as normal, and he’d looked up, blinked, and the world was thousands of colors and shades, all so bright that he had squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught. He’d opened his eyes cautiously, one at a time. The colors were still there. Half-blinded, half-dazzled, he had groped for Éponine’s arm, clutched at her shoulder hard. “Who is that?”_ _

__She turned, brow furrowed. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna hit the deck.”_ _

__"It’s hot," he said. (It was the middle of November. It was below freezing.) "I’m fine."_ _

__"Are you sure? You’re acting really—" She narrowed her eyes. "Grantaire, what are you seeing right now?"_ _

__"Nothing unusual," he lied. "Just someone who might actually be a Greek god, but you won’t even tell me his name." He pouted, exaggeratedly._ _

__She obviously didn’t believe him; it wasn’t the first time he found himself grateful for their strict _we won’t talk about it unless you want to _policy, but it might have been one of the strongest. “His name is Enjolras. He runs the student advocacy group on campus. It’s really good, actually, even though they do get a little privilegey sometimes.”_ _ __

__"Jesus Christ," he muttered, closing his eyes again. The guy would be some optimistic, social justice crusader. Grantaire had just been glad to find a clean pair of pants that morning. _He’s going to hate me. I’m going to be one of those people whose soulmate is already soulmates with someone else. ___ __

__"You should come to meetings," she said, shrewdly._ _

__"No, thanks. I’m not into that shit."_ _

__She didn’t appear to be listening. “They—we—meet at the Musain a couple nights a week, I know you know. I’ll bring you to the next one. The people are great, and you need a fucking hobby.”_ _

__He knew—knows—that there is no point to arguing when she gets like this, and the colors are starting to hurt his head anyway. “Hey, ‘Ponine, I think you’re right, I’m not feeling that great. You gonna be okay if I go back home?”_ _

__"Yeah." Impulsively, she tugged him into a quick hug. "Whatever’s wrong, let me know what you need, yeah?"_ _

__"Yeah, alright. Thanks."_ _

___Enjolras ____ _

____The meeting began as most meetings did. Bahorel and Feuilly making obscene jokes and arm wrestling in the corner. Courfeyrac holding court in the middle of the room telling some story they’ve all heard a thousand times and are somehow still riveted by. Jehan interjecting now and again with something random, all the while drawing in multicolored Sharpies on his own arm. Him, watching them all fondly and waiting until the last possible second to start the meeting. They’d mock him for excessive punctuality, but they all knew he could’ve started ten minutes ago._ _ _ _

____He was just about to call the meeting to order when Éponine slid, soundless, through the door. Her hand was wrapped around some guy’s wrist, some guy who looked up—_ _ _ _

____and, slowly, everything changed._ _ _ _

____Enjolras didn’t know what he’d expected from the first time he saw colors. He’d always supposed it would happen immediately—like he would see the person and just. Suddenly, there would be color._ _ _ _

____This is different._ _ _ _

____The color comes in as though it is a breeze, slowly rippling its way across the world and kissing everything with rich shades of colors he could never have imagined. It’s so beautiful that it steals his breath for a moment, and he stammers—he. stammers.—when Éponine introduces him to his soulmate._ _ _ _

____"R, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, my best friend Grantaire."_ _ _ _

____"Uh. Hey," he managed, praying that his palms wouldn’t be clammy as he reached out to shake Grantaire’s—his soulmate’s—hand. “It’s—it’s good to have you.”_ _ _ _

____Grantaire’s smirk was slow, an ironic curve of the lips. “Good to meet you, Apollo.”_ _ _ _

____He still wishes he’d come up with something to say in response._ _ _ _

____(They had their first fight not an hour later. Grantaire had stormed out, and for a while, Enjolras had been afraid he’d never see him again._ _ _ _

____He was back for the next meeting.)_ _ _ _

_____Presently ____ _ _ _

______"Combeferre, I need you to help me."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Combeferre, who had been peacefully working on his thesis in his favorite corner of the library, dims his screen and looks up expectantly. “What’s wrong?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Enjolras’s hair is sticking up in at least seven different directions, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a day or so. “Do you think it’s possible for someone to be your soulmate, but for you not to be theirs?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"If I know you, you’ve done the research on this already," he says, patiently, "but I’ll humor you. It’s possible, but very unlikely. And usually, in cases where that happens, all three—or however many—of the people involved make an effort to make the situation work." He lifts an eyebrow. "Is there something you’d like to tell me?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"No, I’m just—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Combeferre tilts his head. Enjolras breaks._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I think Grantaire is my soulmate."_ _ _ _ _ _

______This is exactly zero percent surprising, given how Enjolras had acted for at least a month after meeting him, but Combeferre is pretty sure Enjolras isn’t up for that conversation. “You think?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Okay, fine, I know, but. He. I don’t think I’m his.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Why do you feel that way?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Because all we do is fight. Because he’s never said anything and we’re just so different and he never talks to me outside of meetings."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Have you ever said anything to him about it?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Enjolras frowns. “Well, no.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Do you ever make any attempt to talk to him outside of meetings?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"…no."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Combeferre pats Enjolras on the back of the hand. “Suggestion: go talk to him. Really, what’s the worst thing that can happen?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"He tells me he’s already met his soulmate and laughs in my face," Enjolras says, with the kind of immediacy that indicates that he has already spent far too many hours thinking about this._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Based on the way he watches you when he doesn’t think you’re looking, I’m going to go with definitely not gonna happen.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"He watches me?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Combeferre is a very patient man, but Enjolras could test the saints. “Go.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"But—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"GO."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Enjolras, if you are not out of here in the next thirty seconds, I will show Grantaire the video of that time you got drunk and sang ‘Wannabe’ with Courfeyrac."_ _ _ _ _ _

______Enjolras has never moved so fast in his life._ _ _ _ _ _


	3. In which Enjolras and Grantaire attempt to behave like rational adults.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BUT DO THEY SUCCEED?
> 
> spoilers: maybe. Kind of.

Grantaire is just about to open a new bottle of whiskey when a flurry of knocks echoes around his apartment. 

He mutters a curse and rolls off the couch, sloping toward the door. He yanks it open just as the knocking starts again, and Enjolras very nearly falls over. “What the hell,” he says, weakly.

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, breathless. "Good, I was afraid you wouldn’t be home."

"Um." He blinks several times. "Uh, okay?"

"Can I…come in?"

"Right. Yeah, okay, sure." He backs off to let Enjolras enter, nearly tripping over his own feet as he goes. 

"I just. Had a question."

"I might have an answer." He grins a little, and Enjolras offers him a small smile in return.

"Okay." Enjolras draws a deep breath, apparently steeling himself. "How long have you been seeing in color?"

"What."

"I’m sorry if it’s a personal question, I just. Really. Wanted—to know?"

"Why?"

"I promise it’s going to make sense. Please."

"If we’re going to have this conversation, I need a drink," he says, flatly, and jerks his head to invite Enjolras to follow. "Can I get you anything, Apollo?"

"No, thanks, I’m fine." He sits on the edge of Grantaire’s sofa like he isn’t quite sure he’s allowed there, looking around like everything is completely novel. "I haven’t been in here in ages."

Grantaire knows this. The last time Enjolras was here, Grantaire wasn’t living alone, and Enjolras wasn’t there to see him. “It’s a shithole now,” says Grantaire, downing a shot and pouring himself a second as he joins Enjolras on the couch. 

"It’s not. I—I like the art on the walls." 

"That’s not that great either." He laughs at the look of consternation on Enjolras’s face. "But thank you."

Enjolras tilts his head, eyes lighting with understanding. “Did you do those?”

"Mm." He makes a face. "Joly and Bossuet made me put it up before they moved in with Musichetta, and I haven’t gotten around to taking it down yet."

"Don’t take it down." His voice is almost painfully sincere. "I know I don’t know much about art but…I can tell you’re really talented, R."

He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while. Grantaire picks at his nails, wishes he had a cigarette, and drinks so that he has something to do with his hands. Eventually, he turns toward Enjolras and says, in a rush, “I’ve been seeing in color for two years and four months. Give or take.” and three days and four hours. 

"Oh." For some reason, this makes Enjolras’s face fall, but it goes impassive so quickly that Grantaire thinks he probably made that up anyway. "So did you…did you actually meet your soulmate?"

_Oh, I cannot do this. _“Why do you wanna know, Enjolras? What do you care about my love life? We have a lot of other friends you could be asking this question.”__

__Enjolras draws back. “I lied, to Marius.”_ _

__"…okay."_ _

__"When I said I didn’t know who my soulmate was."_ _

__"Okay?"_ _

__He sighs. “I saw my soulmate for the first time two years and three months ago.”_ _

__Grantaire straightens, suddenly. It had taken Éponine a while to get him to go to meetings— _no. stop. _"Enjolras. Where were you when you saw your soulmate?"___ _

____His mouth moves soundlessly for a few seconds. “I. was at the Musain.”_ _ _ _

____Grantaire’s hands are shaking. He drags them through his hair, shakes his head. “Jesus. Christ, Enjolras, I was at your stupid fucking _protest _and you started talking, and I looked up and—”___ _ _ _

______"Oh. Oh." His hands jump like he wants to reach for Grantaire, but he stops himself. As though he still isn’t quite sure they’re on the same page. "Grantaire, am I your soulmate?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______He nods, slightly, slowly, shakily. “Am I yours?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Yes."_ _ _ _ _ _

______He isn’t crying, he is not. Except he is, and Enjolras is closing the space between them to pull Grantaire into his arms and hold him impossibly close and press kisses to the top of his head his forehead his cheeks his nose his lips_ _ _ _ _ _

______and they’re laughing and now Enjolras is crying too_ _ _ _ _ _

______and “God we’re such idiots, how did it take us this long to realize—”_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I’ve been so afraid that you had someone else—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______"I never would’ve thought I would’ve been good enough—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______and it won’t be perfect, they both know it won’t, but that doesn’t matter. At the moment, nothing matters outside of them._ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Feuilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gets pink when he turns thirteen and meets his seventh and final foster mother, a young but preternaturally tired looking woman with bright eyes and an always-ready smile. She works a lot, but it’s the first time he’s ever been warm at night and had enough to eat, and someone who actually asks how his day was, listens, and cares about his answer.

i.

Feuilly gets his first color when he’s seven years old and he meets the oldest daughter of his third foster family. It is the color of snow, of clouds, of her teeth when she smiles.   
She is the only good part of living in that house. Sometimes she comes into his room at night and cuddles close to him and tells him everything is going to be okay. He’s pretty sure she’s lying, but it helps anyway. 

She is the only thing he misses about that house when they take him away, thin and shivering in the same clothes he’s been wearing since the weekend, almost a year later.

ii.

He gets pink when he turns thirteen and meets his seventh and final foster mother, a young but preternaturally tired looking woman with bright eyes and an always-ready smile. She works a lot, but it’s the first time he’s ever been warm at night and had enough to eat, and someone who actually asks how his day was, listens, and cares about his answer. 

She sings a lot, and laughs more, and sometimes she dances Feuilly around the kitchen while they’re cooking.

(She is the one who takes him to get help when the nightmares become too much to bear, who holds him when he cries and strokes his hair and murmurs soothing bits of nothing in his ear.)

iii. 

There’s a man at his high school—the art teacher. Feuilly doesn’t have time to fit the class in his schedule, but he goes by the studio sometimes because there’s an open door policy, and sometimes it soothes him to paint for a few hours after school. Feuilly doesn’t think he’s doing anything particularly interesting, but this man tells him he has talent. Encourages him. Slips him college applications and tells him about available scholarships when Feuilly’s face falls over the tuition prices. Helps him find scholarships that are the best fit for him and helps him fill them out. He is the one Feuilly goes to for recommendations, and when he reads it later (well, he had left the envelope unsealed…), the paper ends up stained with tear marks.

This man is the one who introduces Feuilly to the rich color of soil.

iv.

He meets Combeferre on orientation day, so busy looking around trying to take it all in that he doesn’t see him until he’s already bumped into him.

"I’m sorry—" 

"It’s no problem," he’d replied, grinning as he steadied Feuilly. "No harm done." He’d introduced himself, and Feuilly had seen the color of the sky for the first time.

v.

He meets Enjolras next, when the other man starts off their gender studies class with a passionate tirade that very nearly gets him kicked out within the first five minutes. Feuilly had turned, smiling slightly, to get a better look at the impassioned speaker, and the sweatshirt he was wearing had burst into color (red, he’ll learn later).

He goes up to him at the end of class and tells him he’s very interested in what he’d had to say, and would he maybe be interested in continuing the conversation over a cup of coffee?

(He’s not asking in a romantic sense, and the words are barely out of his mouth before he’s silently kicking himself and hoping against hope that he won’t be misconstrued…he needn’t worry, because the thought doesn’t occur to Enjolras at all.)

Instead, Enjolras smiles and invites him to the Musain, for a student advocacy group meeting taking place a few days later.

vi.

He goes.

He’s late, though, and angry at himself. It’s a large area, and he still hasn’t quite gotten used to the surrounding area.

He’s barely through the door, taking in the huge group of friends laughing and chatting, when the rest of the world bursts into color.

Feuilly smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLATONIC SOULMATES, U GUISE.
> 
> AROMANTIC FEUILLY.
> 
> HELP I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP
> 
> (find me on tumblr @moonlitserenades if you wanna talk about it)


	5. Combeferre & Courfeyrac

Combeferre doesn’t _like _his new school. People aren’t nice there, and the bigger boys keep laughing at him and telling him that he can’t play with them at recess. He wonders if they’d let him play if he wasn’t so small for his age, but he guesses that doesn’t matter, because he is. It’s been a week, and he still barely talks to anyone.__

__He’s sitting alone in the corner of the playground by the sandbox, rolling a ball forward and back between his hands. There’s a sudden, loud shout, and another ball bounces off the top of his head. He lets out a yelp and clasps his hands over the spot, wincing. His own ball rolls away; pouting, Combeferre curls his legs up and wraps his arms around his knees, sighing quietly._ _

__"Sorry,” someone says, breathless, and he hears the sound of pounding feet coming closer. If he was looking up, he’d see a slightly bigger boy with way too much curly hair for his head, clutching the offending ball under one arm and Combeferre’s ball in both, slightly grubby hands. “I got your ball.” He thrusts his hands out; his own ball rolls free again, but he doesn’t seem to notice._ _

__Combeferre looks up at last; as he watches, the ball begins to shimmer with color. The color spreads out and up—his mouth is open, and he’s blinking fast, trying to understand what’s happening, and before long, the whole world is washed in color. “Thankth,” he whispers, lisping through the gap where one of his front teeth had been a few days prior._ _

__The boy bounces on his toes as he hands Combeferre the ball, smiling a huge smile. “I’m Courfeyrac,” he says loudly. “How come you’re sitting by yourself?” Combeferre shrugs, turning the ball over and over in his hands. “I dunno,” he mutters. “Nobody wanted to play with me.”_ _

__“That’s dumb,” Courfeyrac declares, with the calm certainty of the very young. “You come play with me and Enjolras.”_ _

__"Enjolrath?”_ _

__Courfeyrac points toward another boy, who appears to be yelling at someone by the jungle gym. “He’s really nice, you’ll like him,” he rambles excitedly, pulling Combeferre to his feet. “Hey, you didn’t tell me your name.”_ _

__“I’m Combeferre,” he says, quietly, and Courfeyrac all but beams and throws his arms around Combeferre’s neck._ _

__“I like you,” he announces. “I wanna be your friend.”_ _

__Combeferre smiles and lets himself be dragged over to the boy who will become his other best friend. “Me, too.”_ _


	6. Jehan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone could court life, it would be Jehan Prouvaire.

Jean Prouvaire has seen in color from his very first, hazy memories. It began lightly, the barest of shades—closer, almost, to white than real color. But the older he got, the brighter and darker his colors became. He doesn’t recall ever having told anyone about it for several years—it was all he knew, and in truth he had not yet acquired the language to speak of it anyway.

He was nearly a teenager when he was first learned of it all. The adults in his life all spoke of it as though it were something far off, something he wouldn’t truly understand for many, many more years. Somehow, this made it all the more delicious to him. He kept his colors his secret, and stayed up nights flipping through brightly illustrated books that helped identify the hues that made up his world, memorizing the words and whispering them into his pillow as he fell asleep.

When they spoke of colors, they spoke of people, too. The one person who would make you complete, make you new and whole, infuse you with passion. Jehan cares more about the words, the new worlds he can create using what he knows of his own. Even when he is older, old enough to begin to grasp the concept of a soulmate, and to understand why people might want one, he finds himself shying away from the idea.

He has relationships eventually. Sweet ones, or torrid ones, or brief flings. He studies the art of kissing, falls in love with love itself. (He wonders if you can love someone who isn’t your soulmate, and decides _of course you can. _And he does, really and truly.) He loses himself in sensations and emotions, and then translates it all to words that he turns to on the gray days, on the days when he can’t remember why it’s a good idea to get out of bed or talk to anyone at all. He loves the relationships when he is in them; when they fall apart, he buries himself again in his art, or the world, or his friends.__

__On most days, he venerates and adores life and everything that goes with it. Other days are harder; Jehan has always been the sort of person to feel everything with a sort of singleminded tenacity that applies to life’s aches as much as its joys._ _

__Still, on some days, after he gets to college, he’ll tell his friends, with one hundred percent honesty, that he believes that life is his soulmate. On others, his soulmate is his art. “At times, my love is cruel,” he’ll say, draping himself dramatically over the table, “but when they are not—oh, when they are not, how beautiful we are together.”_ _


End file.
